9781785043772

BY Atlas of the Heart You Are Your Best Thing (co-­e dited with Tarana Burke) Dare to Lead Braving the Wilderness Rising Strong Daring Greatly The Gifts of Imper fection I Thought It Was Just Me

Brow_9780399592553_all_3p_r5.indd 2

24/09/2021 17:03

Atlas of the Heart

Brow_9780399592553_all_3p_r3.s.indd 3

9/16/21 3:24 PM

to PC and BT, You don’t know me. love, TJ

Brow_9780399592553_all_3p_r3.s.indd 5

9/16/21 3:24 PM

RANDOM HOUSE • NEW YORK

Atlas of the Heart MAPPING MEANINGFUL CONNECTION AND THE LANGUAGE OF HUMAN EXPERIENCE

Brow_9780399592553_all_3p_r5.indd 6

22/09/2021 14:38

Brow_9780399592553_all_3p_r3.s.indd 7

9/16/21 3:24 PM

1 Vermilion, an imprint of Ebury Publishing, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA Vermilion is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

Copyright © Brené Brown 2021 Brené Brown has asserted her right to be identiÿed as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Vermilion First published in the United States in 2021 by Random House, an imprint and division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material: © HarperCollins Publishers: Brief excerpts from pp. xxvii and 90-91 of All About Love by bell hooks, copyright © 2000 by Gloria Watkins. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers. © Routledge, an imprint of Taylor & Francis Group: Excerpt from Teaching to Transgress by bell hooks, copyright © 1994 by Gloria Watkins. Reprinted by permission of Routledge, an imprint of Taylor & Francis Group.

ISBN 9781785043772 Printed and bound in Great Britain by Bell & Bain Ltd A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library °e authorised representative in the EEA is Penguin Random House Ireland, Morrison Chambers, 32 Nassau Street, Dublin D02 YH68

Penguin Random House is committed to a sustainable future for our business, our readers and our planet. °i s book is made from Forest Stewardship Council® certiÿed paper

Brow_9780399592553_all_3p_r5.indd 8

24/09/2021 11:00

Contents Introduction

#1

Places We Go When Things Are Uncertain or Too Much Stress, Overwhelm, Anxiety, Worry, Avoidance, Excitement, Dread, Fear, Vulnerability

#2

68

Places We Go When We’re Hurting Anguish, Hopelessness, Despair, Sadness, Grief

Brow_9780399592553_all_3p_r3.s.indd 9

56

Places We Go When Things Aren’t What They Seem Amusement, Bittersweetness, Nostalgia, Cognitive Dissonance, Paradox, Irony, Sarcasm

#6

38

Places We Go When It’s Beyond Us Awe, Wonder, Confusion, Curiosity, Interest, Surprise

#5

16

Places We Go When Things Don’t Go as Planned Boredom, Disappointment, Expectations, Regret, Discouragement, Resignation, Frustration

#4

2

Places We Go When We Compare Comparison, Admiration, Reverence, Envy, Jealousy, Resentment, Schadenfreude, Freudenfreude

#3

xi

88

9/16/21 3:24 PM

CONTENTS

#7

Places We Go with Others Compassion, Pity, Empathy, Sympathy, Boundaries, Comparative Suffering

#8

Places We Go When We Fall Short Shame, Self-Compassion, Perfectionism, Guilt, Humiliation, Embarrassment

#9

218

Places We Go to Self-­Assess Pride, Hubris, Humility

202

Places We Go When We Feel Wronged Anger, Contempt, Disgust, Dehumanization, Hate, Self-Righteousness

#13

182

Places We Go When Life Is Good Joy, Happiness, Calm, Contentment, Gratitude, Foreboding Joy, Relief, Tranquility

#12

152

Places We Go When the Heart Is Open Love, Lovelessness, Heartbreak, Trust, Self-Trust, Betrayal, Defensiveness, Flooding, Hurt

#11

132

Places We Go When We Search for Connection Belonging, Fitting In, Connection, Disconnection, Insecurity, Invisibility, Loneliness

#10

114

Cultivating Meaningful Connection

240

249

Gratitude

275

Notes

277

x

Brow_9780399592553_all_3p_r3.s.indd 10

9/16/21 3:24 PM

Introduction

Heart is sea, language is shore.

Whatever sea includes, will hit the shore.

— RU M I

How It Started I am not a sentimental keeper of things.

Maybe it’s because I come from a long line of people who hold on to everything—­every receipt and photo and old department store box. From the time I was in my early twenties, I often had the unenviable task of packing up the houses of relatives who could no longer live at home or who had died. If the movie montage version of this chore exists, I’ve never experienced it. It’s miserable.

First, no one in my family is going to admit that they might, at some point, get sick or die. My people die with a look of defiance on their face and shit in every drawer. This leaves me and my sisters packing, crying, cussing, and using every single tool we’ve learned in therapy to resist turning on one another when we’re exhausted. That’s actually the only time we laugh—­ when one of us says “I wish I could take out my rage on y’all” and the other two, without even looking up, say, “Yeah. Same.”

There is nothing sweet about packing up. It’s hard physical work and an emotional minefield. Do I keep it? Do I trash it when no one is looking?

Should I feel bad? Am I bad? Maybe I should box it all up and let my kids deal with it when it’s their turn? xi

Brow_9780399592553_all_3p_r3.s.indd 11

9/16/21 3:24 PM

INTRODUCTION

As far as my own stuff goes, I was Marie Kondo before Marie Kondo was cool. Just like I’m convinced that my car goes faster after I get an oil change, I can feel my house sighing with relief when I take five bags of stuff to the local shelter. There’s a lift and a lightness. And a sense of control. The house stands a little straighter without the extra weight, and I feel freer with a little less baggage.

Becoming a parent made the purging tricky. In 1999, when I was pregnant with Ellen, I saw something on TV—­a reality show or a movie or something—­ that showed how a mother had kept all of her son’s drawings and used them to decorate for his wedding rehearsal dinner. Jesus. So much pressure. From that point forward, every one of the 5,684 pieces of art that my kids brought home became an emotional negotiation about their rehearsal dinner. At some point I realized that unless I was hosting this dinner in a stadium, one box of curated pieces was enough. I saved some, framed and hung pieces all over the house, photographed some of them, and, when no one was looking, put the rest in the garbage. Way down deep where no one could see.

So, given my tendency to throw out everything, I’m always fascinated when I come across an old box of my own stuff. I must have thought something was really important if it warranted saving. If you put all of my memorabilia and artifacts together, you would get the most accurate story of who I was and what I valued at any one point in my life. And you’d probably need no more than a standard issue dining room table to lay it out.

I came across this old college paper several years ago—­when I was starting this book. It’s not a great or even a very good paper, but it knocked me off balance for a few months. Why have I been thinking about emotions for so long? Why has this always been so important? Can I even remember a time when I wasn’t thinking about emotions?

As I unpacked a few other things in the box—­a lifeguard whistle, poems I’d written, a mixtape from Steve, and a few pictures—­my time capsule transported me back to my Flock of Seagulls asymmetrical haircut and a 1974 Volvo 240D with a floorboard that was so rusted out I could see the road pass beneath as I drove. I spent a couple of days with my 1987 self and learned some things that I had either never known or never acknowledged, or things I possibly once knew and pushed way down.

x ii

Brow_9780399592553_all_3p_r3.s.indd 12

9/16/21 3:24 PM

Brow_9780399592553_all_3p_r3.s.indd 13

9/16/21 3:24 PM

INTRODUCTION

I come from a very tough, suck-­it-­up-­get-­it-­done-­and-­don’t-­talk-­about-­ feelings family. Both of my parents had a hard upbringing with a lot of trauma, and despite their own unhappiness, they considered the life they gave us the height of mythical suburban bliss. In their high school years, my dad was the rage-­and-­grief-­fueled football captain and my mom was the head of the drill team and president of half a dozen clubs. She was everything she needed to be to redeem the reputation of what was inconceivable in the Leave It to Beaver 1950s—­having an alcoholic mother.

When I was growing up, there was a lot of unpredictable behavior and intense emotion in our home. There was intense love and there was intense rage. There was intense laughter and intense hurt. But even the good times were dicey, because they could turn in an instant.

I am the oldest of four, so I often felt the brunt of the madness, along with the responsibility of protecting my siblings from the unpredictable swings.

When things were bad, I was the protector. When things were great, I was the protector-­in-­waiting, always on the outside of the fun, easily teased for being too serious, and always knowing that we were one sideways glance or one smart-­ass comment from chaos.

By the time I was in middle school, I had used a combination of my mom’s magazines and after-­school specials to diagnose myself as “crazy.” I know that’s a pathologizing word, but back then it was all I had.

First, nothing, I mean nothing, was discussed or normalized in my family.

Not feelings or fears or periods or friend problems or puberty or money issues or extended family members who struggled with addiction and mental health issues—­nothing. We are all good. Any question or attempt to understand the things that were clearly not good was immediately shut down in punitive ways. For children, it’s easy for everything to become a source of shame when nothing is normalized. You assume that if no one is talking about it, it must be just you.

Second, my parents were confusing. My parents were and are good people who did the very best they could with the tools they had. Sometimes those tools weren’t enough. Growing up, they seemed to be funny, loving, well liked, smart, great storytellers, and caring neighbors. People loved them.

Because they were predictably good outside the house, and wildly unpre-

x iv

Brow_9780399592553_all_3p_r3.s.indd 14

9/16/21 3:24 PM

INTRODUCTION

dictable inside, I assumed it was us. And because I was the oldest, I assumed it was mostly me. And again, it was shaming for all of us when the inside behaviors didn’t match the families on TV. Something was wrong and it must be us. We were wrong.

As if all of this wasn’t enough to navigate, I had magic powers. And I couldn’t talk about them or ask anyone what to do with them. I wasn’t allowed to see The Exorcist, Sybil, or Carrie, but I knew enough about these movies to use them as my reference points for unwell teenage girls. Needless to say, I was worried. Can you imagine how this conversation would have gone over with parents who wanted nothing more than to fit in and be the suburban ideal? Hey, Mom and Dad, I didn’t make the drill team, I don’t have a date with a football player to Homecoming, and I got in trouble for saying “shithead” in English. But I do have secret powers.

At the time, I would have told you that I could predict the future. I couldn’t tell you what was going to happen in twenty years, but I could tell you with stunning accuracy what was going to happen in twenty minutes. And when you’re young and navigating a tough time at home combined with moving and changing schools in fourth grade, sixth grade, and eighth grade, twenty minutes is all the future you have. So, yes. I could predict the future.

I knew which snarky comment would produce a laugh and which one would set off a fight. And I knew why. I knew that the comment about too much dessert was funny when someone felt good about how they looked and how the same comment would unleash a screaming match if someone didn’t feel good about themselves that day or that hour.

I knew everyone’s shame triggers and the unwanted identities that elicited their shame. I knew how it was important for everyone to be perceived, when we could poke fun, and how long we had to get the hell out of Dodge if we got that wrong. I knew that everyone in our family was really smart and funny, yet there were flavors of teasing that people used to work out stress or hurt, and once unleashed, that type of teasing wouldn’t stop until someone was crying.

I also knew every inch of the supposedly “socially acceptable” place for processing anger, like driving and sporting events. I started out as an athlete but quit as soon as I could. It was too humiliating. Today, when I see

xv

Brow_9780399592553_all_3p_r3.s.indd 15

9/16/21 3:24 PM

INTRODUCTION

that parent at my kids’ events, I have to put myself in a trance or leave. The irony is that the first time my dad came to one of Ellen’s field hockey games, he got out of his folding chair in the middle of the game and started pacing along the fence line. When I went over to ask him what was wrong, he said, “These girls are under too much pressure. These parents and coaches are really piling it on. And someone’s going to get hurt with those big sticks.”

Who are you?

The terrifying road rage moments of my childhood left me and my nervous system incapable of handling raging drivers. A couple of years ago, I had a driver pick me up at the airport for a work trip. He got angry when someone passed us on the right side of the freeway, so he started speeding up and slamming on the brakes to prevent that driver from sliding in front of us in the passing lane. I had to say, “I need you to pull over and let me out or stop driving like this.” He laughed like I was joking until I put the driving service dispatch operator on speakerphone.

I was eight or nine years old the first time I realized that my superpowers worked outside the house. Our neighborhood swim team coach liked some people and disliked others, and his preferences seemed to change every day.

Everyone tried to figure it out—­some of the kids even ran experiments—­ but no one could solve it. Except me. I knew the secret.

This coach liked effort more than natural talent. He liked the kids who tried, even if they didn’t win. And, my God, he loved backstroke. So every day when I got to practice, I’d pick the lane with the people who tried the hardest, not the best swimmers but the people who were dying by the time they reached the wall. Luckily, “dying by the time you reach the wall” was a good fit for me. And for free stroke, I’d always swim backstroke. He was a yeller, but I was never once on the receiving end of it.

I also had a really awful piano teacher who would shame and humiliate students. Because of my secret powers, I was never victimized by the teacher, but that wasn’t enough. I could barely tolerate watching it happen to others, so I did my best to set the class up for success. One day, as I was showing my friend the scale we were working on, we both started giggling about something (probably how terrible I was at piano). The instructor went nuts and screamed “Why are you laughing?”

xvi

Brow_9780399592553_all_3p_r3.s.indd 16

9/16/21 3:24 PM